


out of my league

by brophigenia



Series: helen gansey gets her man. and her woman. [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Helen Gansey is the raddest of the rad, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Sexual advice, Sort Of, a new series bc i'm trash, listen guys we all know where this is going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 04:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: “You know this isn’t one ofthosekind of phone lines, don’t you?” Orla said before Helen had a chance to even speak, a replacement forhellothat got right down to business.(AKA, Helen calls Orla for some advice on how to top the hell out of Declan Lynch. With sexy results.)





	out of my league

**Author's Note:**

> is there any excuse for this? 
> 
> yes. it's been a long week. 
> 
> did i need a new series? no.

_ go astray _

_ with me _

_ *** _

“You know this isn’t one of  _ those  _ kind of phone lines, don’t you?” Orla said before Helen had a chance to even speak, a replacement for  _ hello  _ that got right down to business. “And I’m charging double for it. Don’t cross your legs.” 

Helen sighed, crossed her legs, winced when it caused her to bang her knee on the underside of her desk, which had not been measured and carefully constructed for her exact height in order to allow for fidgeting and imperfect posture. Helen Gansey did not squirm. She was not prone to leg crossing. Helen Gansey sat at her desk the same way she lived her life— with both feet planted firmly on the ground. 

(Well. Except for her helencopter excursions.) 

“Told you.” Orla mumbled under her breath. There was the scritchy sound of nails being filed. Helen could picture her, for all that they’d only met the once in person. No doubt her bedroom was a den of faux-silks and animal prints and piled-up love tokens from hopelessly infatuated men. Probably there were lots of crystals.  _ Those kind _ of people usually had a lot of crystals laying about.  

“What do you know about sexual domination?” Helen asked, because she was a Gansey and Ganseys got right to the point. She was sure her foremothers and -fathers never imagined their forthrightness being used to negotiate sex advice from telephone psychics, but that was only because they did not have the benefit of living in a modern age. 

“You mean  _ besides _ what I’ve gleaned from the Christian Grey-obsessed minds of the desperate housewives of Henrietta?” Orla was clearly stretching out their call time (and her profits) by playing dumb; Helen would be annoyed if she didn’t respect the woman’s business acumen. 

“Obviously.” It was succinct. She considered paging her assistant for a coffee. She could use something strong and bitter. That was why she was in  _ this  _ mess, after all. 

(What was more strong and bitter than a six foot tall Irish mutt of a boxer- _ cum- _ snake oil salesman?) 

“You know they have books about this. Internet websites. Exclusive clubs where everyone wears leather and…  _ spikes.”  _ Seduction dripped from the word; Helen went reflexively to cross her legs again and swore lowly, feeling herself start to (horrendously) blush. She had long ago trained herself only to blush on the backs of her ears, of course, which were hidden by her hair, but the fact remained that she could  _ feel it,  _ and knew herself to be disturbingly  _ human.  _ It was not a pleasant feeling, nor a familiar one. 

“If I had wanted  _ spikes,”  _ Helen gritted out, and sourly pressed the button to summon her PA, who took one look at her face and sprinted headlong for the closest Starbucks. “I would have  _ found them.  _ I called  _ you.  _ I want to know what  _ you  _ know about sexual domination.” 

“Hmm,  _ do  _ you.” Orla hummed. “No you don’t.” She went on, contradicting in a curling voice that made Helen think she was smiling. 

“Don’t I?” Helen murmured, barely audible. Breath bated. Out of her head, almost. 

“You want to hear about yourself. Business types always do.” Orla’s observational tone was not accusing but leading. She was smarter than she liked to let on. Helen had known that from the start. “You want to hear about  _ Helen Gansey.  _ I don’t blame you.” 

“Tell me, then,” Helen challenged, toes curling in her Manolos. Stiller than nature, straining her ears so she wouldn’t miss a single word. 

“You’re after the rush. The…  _ taste  _ of it. Like blood and expensive champagne. Fizzy. You want to feel the strength of that  _ boy _ bowed beneath you like a sapling bowing to a hurricane. Unbutton your pants.” The command was so careless that Helen had already gone to obey before she even really registered it; she paused for a half-second, weighing her options, and then mentally shrugged, slipping one manicured hand down the front of her immaculately-pressed trousers. If she was paying for it, she may as well get everything she could from the experience. 

“He’s not the type to go down easy. You’d have to shock him, make him want it so badly that he’d kill for it, if you told him to. He’s that kind. A mutt. You’ll have to win his loyalty and then you can call him to heel whenever it suits you.” Orla sighed, a sound almost perfumed, sweet and light and full of artifice. Helen had no delusions that Orla might be touching herself the way she herself now was; whatever Orla was getting from this call, it surely was not physical gratification. She was probably painting her nails some lurid shade of neon, maybe considering what she’d have for dinner. Helen didn’t care; she rubbed at her own clit with a thorough firmness that spoke of her desperation, head tipped back and breaths coming quicker, damp into the receiver. “I wonder how easy it’d be to make him cry.” 

Helen’s breath hitched; she imagined those Lynch-blue eyes filling with tears, and imagined being the one to wipe them away. Her thighs spasmed as the pleasure became so hot it almost burned, her orgasm tight and then  _ loose,  _ all her muscles falling lax at once. She groaned low in her throat, only once, and Orla laughed, amused and almost mean. She was a goddess of a woman; Helen again thought admiringly of her, a feeling almost like  _ longing  _ in her gut. 

“Thank you,” Helen said crisply. “I appreciate the… insight.” 

Orla laughed again, softer this time. Almost intimate. There was a lot about Orla that was  _ almost.  _ On the cusp. She was a woman who did not exist in absolutes, but in the gray area between  _ here  _ and  _ there.  _ So was the prerogative of a mystic, Helen supposed. 

“Call back anytime,” she said warmly. “I’ll give you the friends and family discount. Ten percent off your first five minutes.” 

Helen disconnected the call without saying goodbye; Orla was not the kind of woman you said a paltry, trite  _ goodbye  _ to. 

“Miss Gansey, I have your coffee!” Geric called through the door, voice on the verge of quivering in absolute terror. Helen never  _ meant  _ to breed such fear into her personal assistants. They came up with it on their own. 

“Just a moment,” Helen answered, and rose with a soft sound of tiredness to go scrub her hands in her private office bathroom, getting the distinct seawater-saltiness off. Wiping the slate clean. She still had a meeting this afternoon with the women-only gym she’d been hired to redecorate, and a charity ball to plan for her mother. 

In the mirror, she’d bitten the lipstick off of the center of her lower lip. It made her look tawdry, despite that being the only outward sign of her foray into  _ weakness.  _ She wiped her mouth clean entirely and then picked a new shade from the stash of emergency supplies beneath the sink. The new red was more brown- than pink-toned, and it made her appear more still, more subdued. Less like she was prone to bouts of wayward sexual experiences. 

“Miss Gansey, you have a phone call!” Geric squawked, obviously horrified at having to interrupt her twice. 

“Who is it, Gerry?” She asked, and arched a brow at herself in the mirror, turning her head slightly and lowering her eyelids. She looked like a  _ vamp.  _ Like she could open up a vein with her  _ teeth.  _ And  _ like it.  _

“Mr. Lynch! It’s Mr. Lynch!” Now Geric was practically in hysterics. Helen watched as in the mirror her face (entirely without her permission) morphed into something hungry, something  _ primal.  _ Something  _ cruel.  _

“Keep him on hold,” Helen said, and almost didn’t recognize her own voice, cat-eating-canary smug. Unattractive, except for how terribly  _ attractive  _ it was.

The thing in the mirror grinned, young and reckless for the first time in years. Her stomach swooped and then caught, the way it always did when she first took to the air on a flight. 

“Make him wait.” She murmured, and turned on the faucet, cleaning her hands of slick and of weakness. 

Make him  _ wait. _

***

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
